


Table Of Time Loops

by roxy0908



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Baker Street, Death, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Masturbation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John is confused, Masturbation, Mention of - Freeform, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Doesnt Know What To Do, Suicide, Time Loop, Time Travel, bakerstreet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9450863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxy0908/pseuds/roxy0908
Summary: Sherlock is woken up by John. He keeps being woken up by John. The day just seems to repeat. Sherlock doesn't know what to do.





	1. The Repeating Client

**Author's Note:**

> I don't particularly know if this is going to work. I've never done this.

He’s shaken awake by John.

His eyes open groggily “What? What is it?” He snaps rather grumpily. He hears John huff as he tries to shake off the sleep, rubbing his eyes. He hears the scraping off a chair- no table- and his eyes snap open “I came down to make some tea and i find you asleep at the bloody table” John grumbles, making his way around the kitchen.

He recalls that he very clearly sat on the couch all night. How did he end up at the table? 

A cup of milky tea is placed near him and he picks its up, steam curling from the hot liquid. He takes a sip, too distracted at the way this morning is turning out to fully take in the burning temperature or the actual taste of the tea, eyes following john intently as said person makes his way to his chair.

(Went to his room. Took a shower and masturbated, thinks he’s discreet though that’s not true. Scrolled on the internet before going to bed. Slept longer than usual, but not enough to set his schedule off track.) 

“Dull” he mutters into his tea, making steam disperse into the air.

* * *

 

He sat in the chair across from John, trying to find out why this day seems so… Familiar. He stared at John as if he held the answer, the tapping of keys from Johns computer background noise. Rather loud background noise.

John didn't notice the attention on him until three minutes later. “What’s wrong?” John asked. “Something” He muttered “I'm missing something. What am I missing?” He growled, frustrated. He hated not knowing. “What are you-” John started. 

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs Hudson called, knocking on the door of their flat before opening “you have a client, Boys.” She piped up, all too happy for this early in the morning. “Tell them they can come in” John replied warmly. Distracted.

A woman peeked in, before shuffling in.

(Shy posture, scuffs on inside of shoes, bitten nails; Anxiety. Picture of a woman in her fifties peeking out of her pocket, picture ripped in half. Rarely sees father; parents are divorced. Raised by strict mother. Growing drug problem.) 

Oddly familiar. Was she here before? He thinks back. Blinks. Yesterday. He scowls “I thought I already told you? Boring! Dull!” He exclaims, startling the woman. “P-pardon?” She stutters, eyes widening. “Sherlock, Do you know her?” John, asked. Why was he confused, doesn't he remember her? “John, Is your brain going on me now? She was here yesterday! I thought you were the one good with faces?” He asked, exasperated.

“Sherlock, we didn't have any cases yesterday” John said. John is concerned. “Are you alright?” John asked him. Worried. Everyone is staring at him now. He could basically feel the concern radiating off of everyone. Not good.

“Am I missing something?” He demanded. “Sherlock what are you talking about-” He stood up “Get out! We don’t want your case.” He shooed the woman out the door.

“Sherlock what is your problem?” John snapped, standing up. Not good. “I need to think!” He yelled, rushing through the kitchen to his room. He needs all distractions to go away. Need to think. Need to think!

* * *

 

 He could hear John talking to Lestrade on the phone. Something about drugs. Talking about me then. Boring.

* * *

 

 He hears John call out to him about milk. Shuffling. The creaks of the stairs. The door shuts. Didn't he go out for milk two days ago? They possibly wouldn't run out in such a short time. Something to add to the mental list of possibly important things. He waits a couple of minutes before going out and grabbing his violin, quickly making his way to his room.

* * *

 

He plays for hours into the night, even as John goes in to go to sleep.

* * *

He’s shaken awake by John.


	2. A Cold Cup Of Tea, The Screech Of A Violin

He’s shaken awake by John. 

He awakes with a start, eyes snapping open, heaviness weighing them down. His gaze lands on the grey round table connected to the green and white brick wall. The kitchen. He was in the kitchen. Why was he in the kitchen? He cranes his head to look at John. He catches the end of a sentence “-and i find you asleep at the bloody table” John grumbles.

He catches Johns eye. He stares, unblinking. John is holding two mugs of tea. As the staring continues, John takes a sip of his tea “so are you going to do that all day then?” He asked, nonchalant. He blinks, and hums before standing up, pulling himself away from that train of thought for a moment. 

He’s handed his mug of tea and takes a sip. Tastes the same as yesterdays cup of tea. Or the cup of tea before that.

They stood in silence for a while.

“So, is this some kind of joke?” He asks. John blinks “What do you mean?” He asks. Still confused. Is he acting? “This… thing that you’re doing.” He gestures to the space around the both of them “making it seem like the day keeps repeating” He finished. John looked concerned. Not what he’s looking for. He doesn't want John to worry about him. Worrying doesn’t get answers it just gets questions.

“What-” “What’s the date?” He interrupts “Sherlock-” “What's the date?” He asks again, more persistent. John sighed “The 14th but why-”

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs Hudson called. “Mrs. Hudson I don’t want any clients right now!” Sherlock called back, interrupting her before she could. “Having your private time are we?” She asked outloud. She probably had a grin on her face. He saw out of the corner of his eye as John flushed- started stuttering out something. This ruthless women- “Yes we get it Mrs. Hudson!” He snapped back. He heard her titter on about something as bustled out.

Their tea was cold. He still drank it, ignoring John as he sat down, frustrated. He had no answers for this unnatural occurrence, a sort of- dare he say- time loop.

He decided to get up and play his violin, snatching it up from its place on the coffee table. the screech of it hurt his ears and drowned out distractions as he played- as if he wanted to break the bow with the mere force of it gliding over the strings. He heard John curse. He decided to stop and try to play an actual song for his flat mates sake.

He fell into thought as he played for hours, silent.

He didn't fall asleep, but he was woken up anyway.


	3. Smoke Whisps

He’s shaken awake by John.

Again.

He lifts his head off the table, and opens his eyes. He needs a smoke. And a walk. 

“John” He calls. John stops in his tea making “do we have coffee?” He asks. He draws out an ‘um’, looking through the cabinets “Yeah. Do you want that instead?” John asks. “Why would I ask in the first place if I didn't want coffee?” He snapped “What side of the bed did you wake up on?” He heard John mutter playfully.

He didnt mention the time loop this time. They sat in silence as time ticked on, mind racing with thoughts. slowly, he started getting restless. Three days without a case. This damn loop!

He quickly jumped up, agitated, and shrugged on his coat. As he wrapped his scarf around his neck John finally said something, which was of course “where are you going?” and his answer was “out.”

As he walked outside, he fished a stray cigarette from his pocket and a lighter he always kept on him. He walked for a bit, relishing in the smell of chemicals and tobacco and welcomed the burn as smoke filled his lungs, as if it were an old friend. 

With his nerves quieted for a moment he thought about what he would do to get out of this boring cycle. Where would he start? Why did it start in the first place? It's not like he can just wish upon a star and life will suddenly give him his desires.

He wandered the dreary streets, the cold biting at his uncovered skin and- as time went on- the cigarette long put out.

He made his way back home, skin itching for something to do. He might as well try to experiment while in this personal hell.


	4. Mites

John wakes him up. Again. He sits in silence while drinking tea. Again. Mrs Hudson comes up to tell them about a client. He tells her they don't want clients. Again.

 

Does the time loop still count outside of the flat? He stays out there all day. Says he’s going out (Again.) As the sun goes down he gets a text from John asking where he is. He ignores it and stays out.

 

He wakes up on the table. Groggy and tired. Again.

 

He feels as if he has mites under his skin, niggling in his skull. He’s so very dreadfully bored. He says he doesn't want tea. He makes up an excuse and goes out for a smoke. He walks until his legs burn and then some more. 

 

He wakes up at the table. His hands are twitching. John asks him if something is wrong. He lies and says he’s fine. Later he steals the gun back from John and shoots the wall. One. Two. Three. He hears Mrs Hudson yell about the bill. John comes in yelling. He thinks if death will stop the loops. He hands back the gun as if it burns. 

 

He wakes up at the table. Mahogany. Seven years old. He thinks of smashing the table. He takes the case from the client. It does nothing to stop the itching sensation. He plays until his arms feel like they’ll fall off.

 

He wakes up. He smokes half of his pack of cigarettes. John complains about the smell. He sees his raw, red arms. Concern. Human. The last thing he hears before the next loop is John telling his concerns to Lestrade.

 

He wakes up. He has tea. He eats. John is content. 

 

He wakes up. He thinks of how many days its been. Ten. he smokes his whole pack of cigarettes. John is worried.


	5. He smokes, He plays

The eleventh day. He stares at the microscope; stares at the empty glass beakers and the small tray with vials. Purple. Blue and red mixed into one. The color of royalty; created from the extracts of marine snails. He hears a smash. Looks down at the floor. The glass equipment, shattered on the floor. Silica in the form of sand combined with soda ash and limestone. Melted in a furnace at the temperature of 1700°C to create glass.

 

He hears yelling. He looks up. John Watson. John is yelling at him “What the hell, Sherlock!” is apparently what he’s saying. Dull. Apparently he's upsetting John Watson. He flexes his hands, tests out the tense muscles. extrinsic and intrinsic. Flexors and extensors. Carpals, metacarpals, proximal phalanges, intermediate phalanges, distal phalanges. Boring.

 

He hears glass being swept up. He looks up. John is sweeping up the broken glass. His vision is shaking like a handheld camera. Why is it shaking? Idiot. He’s shaking. Trembling like a snow storm is howling through the flat. Weakness. 

 

He feels the cold hit him before he realizes he’s rushed out of the flat. He smokes to calm his nerves, to calm the rushing of his thoughts. 

 

Where is he? He looks around. Park Road. He didn't go far. Good. His cigarette is going out. He throws it away and fishes around his pockets for another. He forgot to bring his pack. That was the only one in his pockets. Damn.

 

He needs something stronger than tobacco. 

 

His mind stills. No. You stopped this already. You’re stronger than this.

 

He continues in his walk. He walks until he feels like he has his head. He makes his way back. John is out. Looking for him. He doesn’t call or text John to tell him he’s back. He thinks of the gun. He plays to keep his thoughts distracted.

 

The gun doesn't leave his thoughts.


	6. Burns

On the twelfth day he feels the mites again. Persistent, niggling- writhing and burrowing into his flesh, eating at the muscle and bone. His itching starts out small, strained as he stops himself. In between moments he drinks tea, though he’s right back to the scratching.

 

He goes outside and smokes; wonders if the burn of the cigarette will pull him out of this itching frenzy. He tries it, opens his mouth to yelp as the curl of smoke smelling of burnt flesh reaches his nose. He buries it deeper, the embers putting a hole into his skin like paper. He sees blood, the hot ashes quickly cauterizing the wound.

 

He pulls his trembling hand away, gagging and heaving as the small roll of tobacco falls to the ground. His head is spinning. Pain. Painpainpain. He stumbles into the flat, almost falls down the stairs on his way, gripping his arm. The only thing he experiences as John rushes over is the taste of acid on his tongue and the burning tenderness in his arm. His brain is numb. 

 

John steers him towards the chair- sherlock's chair, his chair. He feels nauseous. He watches John, a buzz going through his brain making him sluggish. John is helping the wound. John is asking him something. He’s not listening. Doesn't want to listen. After John helps him he tries to say something to him. He doesn't answer.

 

The cigarette didn't help with the aggravating crawl tingling his skin. 

 

He clenches his fist.

He spends the rest of the day thinking.


End file.
